


mockingbird

by YouAreMyDesign



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Birth Control, Blood, Cannibalistic Thoughts, Creampie, F/M, First Time, Loss of Virginity, Murder Kink, No Underage Sex, Rough Sex, Scars, Table Sex, Unsafe Sex, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-16 22:17:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20610248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouAreMyDesign/pseuds/YouAreMyDesign
Summary: She is a superb mockingbird, he has come to realize, a little fledgling planted in the wrong nest and eating what she can to survive.





	mockingbird

Blood arcs in a fine, wide spray from the plunger she holds to her neck. She watches it from the corner of her eye, shivering as Hannibal embraces her, one hand on her cool forehead, the other wrapped tight around her waist in a mockery of the last embrace her father gave her. He thinks of lifting his arm, of taking hold of one of the conveniently placed knives, still in their block on the kitchen counter, of gripping her tighter and pressing the shining edge to her carotid and slicing open that old, pink scar. The scent of her blood is sharp, sweet for its freshness, unsoiled by the normal accompanying scents of torn organs, of pain, of a body soiling itself as it tosses through its death throes.

She releases the plunger, and her hand drops limply to her side. There is something devastatingly intimate about how she sags against him, so small and frail, as if he had, indeed, spilled so much of her blood that he would be holding her corpse in his arms, if fate and circumstance had aligned themselves just a little off-center. He smiles, and doesn't miss how she shakes when he murmurs to her ear; "Abigail Hobbs is dead."

Her throat, that delicate, doe-arching neck, moves when she swallows, and rasps, "Long live Abigail Hobbs."

His smile widens, and he pets over her silky, fine hair, grips her shoulder and holds her still as she stares at the arch of blood surrounding them. Her eyes close in a slow blink, her cheeks colored a tender pink that she would not be able to give if this were the real thing, and she turns to look at him.

Hannibal smiles kindly at her, and takes the plunger from her loose grip, winding it in front of her and to the side as he pulls away and begins to pack up their equipment. "Be careful not to step in the blood," he tells her. "Go and pack yourself a bag of everything you want to take with you, and we'll leave."

She nods, and leaves the room, giving the evidence of her murder a wide berth. Hannibal is swift to pack everything away, and wipes down the counter of the little telltale drips caused by the removal of the syringe and plastic tubing, cleans and sanitizes the area, and goes to the dining room to wait for her. She already has most of her things, from her stay at the hospital, and it has been moved to the cabin where Hannibal intends to keep her, and so he is not surprised when she returns with merely a backpack, slung over one shoulder, opposite her thick braid and the knot of the scarf around her neck.

Her eyes are dark, expression unreadable, as she looks over the dining room. It's a kitschy thing, the table sturdy enough, flanked by four chairs, the walls decorated with photographs and little porcelain trinkets, the wallpaper a dull, faded yellow color that makes Hannibal think of jaundice.

She breathes in, and says; "Will's going to take the fall for this, isn't he?"

Hannibal nods. Her fingers lift, tugging at her earlobe, and she gives a mimicking nod. She is a superb mockingbird, he has come to realize, a little fledgling planted in the wrong nest and eating what she can to survive.

"I feel…guilty," she admits, biting her lower lip. "He's sick. He frightened me, but I don't think he wanted to hurt me."

"Guilt is a natural reaction to forsaking a bonding instinct," Hannibal tells her, his voice soft. Her eyes flash to his, her brows coming together in a subtle crease. Hannibal smiles. "You are drawn to him because he…reminds you of your father?"

"Is that so wrong?" she whispers.

He shakes his head, and holds his hand out to her. She goes to him readily, putting the strap of her bag over the back of one of the chairs so that she can come to him unencumbered, and she wraps herself under his arm, nudging her nose to his chest. He leans down, breathing in the scent of her borrowed shampoo; it is a fragrant thing, and Hannibal smiles, for the scent itself is not quite unlike Will's – a fevered sweetness, peaches ripe and ready to be eaten.

"I will not let either of you come to harm," he promises her. She nods, trusting because she has no reason, no choice, not to. "Will is just beginning his own evolution, my dear, and it will be slow, and painful for him, but when it is complete, we can all be together. We can be a family."

She shivers, and bites her lower lip, one hand dropping so her fingertips trail over the edge of the table. "This was my seat," she says, nodding to the chair by her hand, on the left of the head of the table. She pulls the chair out and steps away from him, eyeing the space, eyeing the head seat where her father undoubtedly sat. "I wonder how many of our meals were…those girls…"

"Probably more than you'd like to imagine," Hannibal replies. Her eyes lift to him again. "But," he adds, cupping her cheek, "none of them were you."

She nods. Survival of the fittest – that is something every person understands. Some more intimately than others. "Is this my evolution, then?" she asks him. "My…innocence, my past life, nothing more than a bloodstain in the kitchen."

"Such changes are often bloody," Hannibal replies with a small smile. "My own was much more violent." Her eyes flash, brightening with intrigue, but Hannibal shakes his head, for that is not a story he will tell her now – perhaps not ever. It is an old tome in the halls of his memory, gathering dust on a shelf, for he is unwilling to navigate the holes and pitfalls required to access it again.

"This doesn't feel violent," she breathes, drawing his attention back to the present. He blinks at her, head tilting just a fraction. "This feels like kindness. Like love."

Hannibal does not smile, but he allows his expression to soften, soothing the searching look in her eyes. He sees it land, the mockingbird recognizing the call of its kin, and she bites her lower lip, stepping close to him again. It is an easy thing to gently cup her shoulder, to feel how she shivers, and her throat jumps as her pulse tics upwards.

"Violence and love are often not as easily separated as people think," he tells her. "They are both borne of passion – of feelings any of us can succumb to."

He lets his words turn slow, colors them with a thoughtful air, and watches as she nods, her cheeks turning a little darker at the sound of his voice. She turns, creating an enticing angle of her bared neck, her sloping shoulders. She tugs at the knot of her scarf, unwinding it and clutching it in her hands, before she lets it fall, and smooths it out on the edge of the table. Hannibal smiles inwardly, for while she is a capable mimic, she is not unpredictable; she's not old enough, yet, to understand anything beyond surface-level coyness and plastic seduction. She knows how to lure him; women like her always know how to lure monsters.

He slides his hand to her neck, flattens his palm over her scar, feels how her pulse races and watches her chest stutter around a breathy exhale, her eyes shining and dark, her cheeks a rich red, now. He does smile, then, and closes the remaining distance, until he is holding her much like in the kitchen, cupping her neck and very, _very_ lightly letting the edge of his other hand rests on hers, over her scarf.

"Is there anything else you need, before we go?" he asks. Her pale flesh breaks out in a wash of goosebumps, her shoulders go lax and fall even lower, her lashes flutter and drop down. She bites her lower lip, pretending to be shy even as her back arches, creating a lovely curve, and she presses back against him.

He does not often find allure in the shiver and cries of the sheep, the animals he slaughters, but she is not an animal. No – slowly, before his very eyes, she has become closer to a creature like him. Kin calling to kin; species calling to like species. He breathes her in again, smells her blood, the clamminess of her skin that was trapped by the scarf, now freed. Smells, muskier than that, the sweetening of her muscles as blood rushes to them, the thick, cloying fragrance of her arousal, the strain in her flushed lips as she tries to keep her breathing steady.

Her fingers curl within her scarf, knuckles arching beneath Hannibal's like he's teaching her the proper position to play the piano. Another moment of mimicry, another lure. She truly is Will's daughter, with how pretty and eye-catching she has been made by their hands.

Her knees bend, just enough to enhance the space between her thighs, the arch of her spine and the dip just above her tailbone that begs for a hand. Hannibal smiles, thumb stretching out along her jaw, to the soft, giving dip of flesh just shy of the bone. He imagines pressing up, through her, hooking her by the teeth. Imagines her tongue growing wet and red and staining her lips in a permanent rosebud blush.

"Abigail," he says. Presses verbally where she is physical. Steady, where she shakes. Her knuckles slide between his, so pale and dainty and fragile as crystal, and she turns her head and meets his eyes.

She is not unpredictable. She is not subtle. Her gaze drops to his lips, to the knot of his tie, lifts to his cheek, his hair, down again. The little owlet judging the height of the tree before she takes her first jump. She turns in his grip, until his hand settles at her nape, and lifts to her toes and pushes their lips together.

From the moment Hannibal held her in the kitchen and put the plunger in her hand, he suspected this was where it might end up. Even before that, with Nick Boyle's blood on her hands, he knew fostering this level of dependency and intimacy in her would mean it was possible to have her regard for him turn romantic. One of his tracks of thought has been, steadily, methodically, dedicated to how he would react when the time inevitably did come. It all depended on the stage of her evolution – if she came to him as a quivering, unsteady bird, he would turn her away. He has no interest in mounting a frightened filly.

If she simply spoke to him outright, was forthcoming and honest – always the most inconceivable option, but one he did consider – he would have discussed it with her openly, and likely, eventually, given in, if only to sate their mutual curiosities. There's something very viscerally satisfying about pleasing a woman, and Abigail does not lack aesthetic charm. It would have been clinical, and routine, for physical satisfaction only.

If she had come to him brazen; painted like a whore and wearing nothing but her skin in the middle of the night, he would have likely acted in a way to make her regret that decision. It would not be stolen blood and fake arterial spray in the kitchen now. It was always the second least likely scenario in his head, given how well he knows her, but he will admit he spent many hours in idle contemplation of what it would feel like to be the one to strangle Jezebel and feed her to the dogs. Will's dogs, of course.

With such thorough consideration given to Abigail, and how she might eventually come to him, he was prepared for this, as well. High emotions, eager and naïve trust, a soft sigh and an unconscious clenching of her fingers between his own. It is a thing that must be answered with gentleness, with subtle shock, with a demure level of flattery and pleasure.

He was prepared for that version of her. He knows what he ought to do, how he ought to be reacting. But he was not prepared for this at all.

The press of her chapped, warm lips against his own is not the placid, gentle pleasure he had anticipated, because she does not merely kiss him like a tentative, virginal young girl. She grips at his tie and holds him still, opens her mouth with a ragged noise and bites his lower lip, urging him to part them.

Kin calls to kin. He should have known better than to expect a lamb to crawl into the lion's den.

His hands flatten on her hips, and he turns her, shoving her against the edge of the table. The silk of her scarf slips between her jeans and the wood, makes it easy to lift her onto the table, and she gasps, eyes black and wide, and tugs on his tie, her knees spreading out to grip his thighs, curling her heels against his calves.

He pulls back, grips her neck, nudges his nose against her hair to get another deep breath of that scent that reminds him so much of Will, but with her undeniable sweetness. She tugs at the knot of his tie, unravelling it swiftly and letting it drop to the table, and pushes between the open collar of his shirt. Her fingers are cold against his heated skin, shocking against his own pulse, and he slides his hand up into her hair, holds her still, and leans down to kiss her again.

She moans raggedly against his mouth, dragging her hands down his chest until she finds his belt. She fumbles with it, tugging hard enough that his hips roll forward in answer, and he growls against her mouth as his erection ruts hard against the space between her warm thighs. The scent of her is maddening, so thick like honey in his mouth. He wants to taste her from the source.

He pulls back again, swallowing harshly, trying to maintain his composure, but she takes his free hand and looks up at him, biting her lower lip, which is now bruised and swollen from his kisses, and pushes the saddle of his thumb against the seam of her jeans. Hannibal can feel how the she has begun to grow damp, friction and slick making the material bead as though fraying, leaking dye onto his thumb. She stares up at him like he's the only other person in the world, Adam and Eve when there was nothing but them and those they would slaughter for meat.

"I want this," she tells him. That much is obvious. He releases her hair and unbuttons her jeans, pulling at the zipper to reveal the top of her plain underwear. She gives an eager little noise, lifting her hips as he works her clothes down to her knees, and then goes to his own, until he can bunch them around her ankles.

He looks up at her, and she swallows, eyes black, cheeks red and flushing down to her neck. She reaches out, to touch his hair, or perhaps his cheek, to give him some measure of affection – but he has no interest in that. Not at the moment, when he can still smell the blood lingering in the air around her fingers.

He pulls her from the table, straightens, and turns her around, pressing her belly onto her scarf and laying her over the table. Her skin is so pale, utterly without blemish. He thinks about kneading his teeth through her skin, into her meat, bruising and welting her until she cannot sit, until she cannot walk. He imagines digging his nails into her thighs so harshly she cries.

Again, he was not prepared for this – it is passion, it is violence.

She doesn't seem to care for the lack of loving touch, doesn't seem to mind that he has positioned her as little more than a mare to be mounted. She rises to her elbows, looks back at him, and spreads her legs as far as she can. Slim as she is, her pink and slick flesh is readily visible, her thighs quivering and labia the same deep pink as her lips.

He steps up close to her, slides his fingers between her legs, dragging his fingertips in a feather-light touch until he finds her opening. Her lashes flutter, and she gasps, brows creasing and mouth going slack as he pushes a finger inside her. His other hand cups beneath his first one, pushing her apart so that he can find the swollen bud of her clitoris, and he gives it a gentle nudge with a nail, curling his finger down to brush over the rough patch that is sensitive in most women.

She whimpers, her eyes closing, her shoulders tensing up and pulling together as he touches her. She is so incredibly wet, his finger makes an obscenely loud, slick sound whenever he pushes into her. Her inner muscles flutter around him, clamp down and then release in rhythm, and he flattens his fingers of his other hand and gives her clit a few gentle, rhythmic strokes that make her moan and writhe against the table.

"Hannibal," she gasps, and his nostrils flare, his chin lifts. "_Please_."

And, well, who is he to deny her the final piece of her past she wishes to shed? She will leave this house a new woman, a dead woman, sodden and shaking with pleasure. He makes a note to stop by a pharmacy on his way to the cabin to get her an emergency contraceptive, and arrange for a more permanent method of fixing her so she cannot breed.

He pulls his finger out of her, continuing to pet and circle her clitoris as she trembles and gasps, and unbuttons and unzips his own suit pants, pushing them down to his thighs along with his underwear, so her gush of slick won't stain his clothes. He wraps his hand around his cock, stroking himself to full hardness, pulling back on the foreskin so that he can feel how wet and warm she is with the sensitive head.

She gasps, looking back over her shoulder again with wide eyes. He smiles at her, petting over her hip in a reassuring touch. "Slowly," he assures her, and she nods, swallowing harshly. He wastes no further time, and slicks the head of his cock with her, before he finds her opening and pushes against it.

She parts for him _wonderfully_, and he adjusts his stance, digging his nails into her jutting hipbone and rutting his knuckles against her scarf as he sinks all the way inside her. He forces her muscles to shudder and give, thrusts in smoothly as she cries out and whimpers, collapsing against the table. He uses his handhold to work her back the final inch, until her flesh is butted up harshly against his thighs, until the curve of his stomach naturally falls into line with the downward bow of her ass.

"Oh my _God_," she whispers, quivering around him, silken and hot and so tight that Hannibal, for a moment, can only rest there, relishing the clench of her around him. She grips him, clings to him like skin to stubborn flesh, so loathe to be cut apart and made to yield.

He leans over her, holds her shoulder with one hand and slides his other beneath her, between her legs, and she shrieks and claws at the table as he starts to fuck her. Violence and passion, that is what she lured him with, that is what she receives. Her braid is starting to unravel, flyaway strands of hair clinging to her sweaty neck and flushed face as he uses her with a forceful, steady rhythm. Every time he sinks all the way inside her, she spasms and flexes around his cock, and she is so reactive, it's easy to figure out how to touch her clit the way she apparently likes.

Her hands flatten on the table, spread out wide in a smear of sweat. "_Fuck_," she moans, panting, and then reaches beneath her to grab at his wrist, forcing his hand harder against her clit. "Faster, _please_."

He obeys with a snarl, digging his nails into her shoulder and holding her still as he fucks her hard enough that the table trembles beneath them. She reaches up with her free hand, gripping the other side in a white-knuckled hold, whimpers loudly. Her legs abruptly spasm, thighs pulling together to sweetly grip his hand as he touches her, bringing her to orgasm as easily as he ended her life. Her muscles suffocate him, clamp around him so tightly it's a matter of his own strength and prowess to keep her parted for him, and he growls when he feels her come leaking out around his cock, dripping and staining the seat of her underwear and the floor around her feet. The sound of him entering her is not unlike forcing a still-living body to part under his hands, to yield the iron-rich organs and soak him in blood.

"Don't stop," she moans. As if he would. He's starting to sweat, and it's taking much of his self-control to remain a space above her, not to flatten to her and suffocate her, rip out her throat and choke her beneath his hands. Her body gives another weak little spasm and she gasps, letting go of his wrist and arching back into his thrusts until her entire body, and the table beneath her, jolts.

He fits a hand to the back of her neck and clenches his jaw, going still with a grunt, a small flex of his shoulders and hips, and closes his eyes as he comes inside her. She gasps, unable to lift her head because of how he's holding her, but he feels her go tense – not in pleasure, this time, but purely shock. When he pulls out of her, a thick gush of his own come follows behind, and he purses his lips and slips the scarf from beneath her belly, wiping her clean, before he steps away and adjusts his clothes so that he's presentable.

It takes her longer to recover, and he helps her stand and hike her clothes back up, twisting and folding the scarf so the stain is not immediately visible as she refastens her jeans. She looks at him with wide eyes, breathing hard, and he tilts his head, and tucks his fingers beneath her chin. Tilts her, to reveal the scar.

Then, silently, he tugs the hair tie loose from her braid, and runs his fingers through her hair until it falls in a cascade of loose waves down her shoulder. He pushes it back, and then to the other side of her neck, so her scar is an obvious, exposed line on her pretty, pink throat.

He smiles, and gives her a nod of approval that makes her blush, and she takes the scarf back and stuffs it into the front pocket of her backpack.

He gathers his tie, redoes it and settles it back in place, pushing the loose strands of hair away from his forehead, and eyes the table. Some stains, certainly, but nothing that would draw attention. The floor, too, bears nothing that he left behind.

She shifts her weight, biting her lower lip, one hand fluttering absently over her stomach. She breathes out, and when she meets his eyes again, there is something dark there. The mockingbird has taken wing, and thinks herself ready to hunt.

"Abigail Hobbs is dead," she whispers, her throat hoarse from her cries of pleasure.

He smiles back at her. The fledgling may have left the nest, but there are always bigger, more capable predators in the sky. He pulls her forward by her chin, and plants a fond kiss to her forehead, noting with pleasure how she settles, and her smile turns a little more genuine, brightening with hope and childlike infatuation.

"Long live Abigail Hobbs," he replies. She smiles more widely. He gathers his bag, and leads the way out of the house. Abigail follows, and doesn't look back.


End file.
